In No Particular Hurry
by Esse
Summary: The game is full of time wasters. Seeking Semclam Shells instead of Heroically Heroing is one of them.
1. follow the leader

_**Disclaimer:** Characters? Square-Enix. Location? Ditto. Plot? I swear to you, this is straight out of the game. None of this is mine, thank the little gods in charge of mildewing bags of citrus fruits._

_**Notes:** So this is how _my_ game is going, twenty-four hours in. Scenarios might be added, if I continue to play this badly. For now characters are OOC because I haven't _been_ anywhere to learn their particular foibles. Staring at their backsides this many hours, though, has allowed me to create personalities of my own. If laughing at my personal stupidity isn't your cuppa, please turn back._

**In No Particular Hurry**

_"You're going down!"_

"Really," Balthier drawled, buffing Cactite sap off of gilt earrings against his sueded vest, "could we be any more repetitive?" He side-stepped a miss-thrown, incandescent sphere, only to trip over a burbling Happy Bunny that was busily casting Cure spells on anything that moved — and a few stationary objects as well. "Wonderful. Just terrific. You, fluffy bunny thing, would you consider healing my poor, bruised dignity?"

Fran glared, and shifted her weight from one foot to another. "I am **not** a fluffy bunny thing."

"Not you, dear lady, the other fluff… that is," Balthier cleared his throat, and did his best impersonation of a naïve innocent, "the fluffy hare with the silver fur, and the giant ears, and the insanely cute, wrinkled nose… I'm digging myself deeper, aren't I?"

_"Yes! Mist Charge!"_

Basch — the most current stationary object to have benefited from an ambush-launched Cure — tried to laugh, only to discover that he didn't have a sense of humor. "You'd be better off seeking healing for your poor, bruised ass. Not that I'm lacking sympathy for your plight. That's, what, the eighth time you've tripped over the rabbit? Kill it and be done already."

"Certainly. Kill our merry group's only healer. Excuse my reluctance to partake in needless bloodshed—"

_"Pyroclasm! Oh yeah! You're going down!"_

"Isn't he done yet?" Fran glowered, but restrained her instinctive reaction to wrinkle her nose — cutely. Her weight shifting had changed to full out hopping from one high-heeled foot to the other. "I need to seek privacy for — necessity."

"That _is_ a bit of a problem. We can't exactly _pause_ during a Quickening — even for necessity. Why, I tore a hole in my britches this last pratfall, and while I'd like nothing better than to break out my emergency sewing kit, repairs will have to wait until that annoying child who has usurped the title of Leader due to our complete lack of interest in the position is done tossing around fire balls."

"And why is it he's the only one attacking?" Basch, contrary to popular belief, actually felt bad that he was subjecting the others to his rather rank self; the lack of a proper bath over the past two years was bad enough, but the added miasma of armor stolen off a month-old corpse created a stench of such stupendous proportions he was surprised the wolves they encountered attacked instead of fleeing. Of course, the one time an Alpha Hyena managed to knock him down the mangy fleabag had rubbed against him, trying its best to pick up the noxious odor. A blow to his ego to be sure, but he'd stolen a Cotton Cap, so he supposed even the most embarrassing of situations had a way of working out for the better.

_"Wooo! Mist Charge!"_

"That's it." The viera pointed to the South. "I'll be behind that bush." She then quickly loosed two arrows that buried themselves in the clay-rich soil disturbingly close to her companions' most cherished accoutrements. "You will not follow."

"But what if some foul fiend descends upon you while…" Years of association with his partner had taught Balthier many useful things, the most important of which was when to gracefully accept defeat. "Right. Off with you then. If you're needed while we battle this horribly dangerous foe we'll just run in circles and be slaughtered while we await your return."

Fran nodded pleasantly. "Yes. You do that," she said before trotting with all seemly haste towards the aforementioned bush.

"Run in circles?" Basch scoffed, scratching the Bunny behind one perky ear. "Be slaughtered? What kind of plan is that?"

"One that will buy _me_ time to escape while they're gnawing on your scrawny bones, Captain."

_"Bwahaha! You're going down!"_

"I thought we were supposed to head to Rabanastre; important plots afoot, mysterious agendas to uncover and what not." He patted his (unbathed and unbrushed for two years yet beautifully bouncy and healthily gleaming) pony-tailed hair before sighing. "So why are we wandering the Giza Plains picking fights with Werewolves?"

"How should I know? It's not as if our Woefully Inept Leader confides in me. Point of fact—"

_"Aww, not so big and scary now, are you wolf-face? And now for the big finale!"_ Vaan clapped, and cheered — and ever-so-slowly began looking worried as the grand finale failed to materialize. "Umm, Balthier? Where's the Concurrence?"

"Could it be you didn't _earn_ a Concurrence? That there are certain prerequisites that you _entirely_ failed to fill?" Quickly checking his Gambits, Balthier tossed a Phoenix Down at Basch — first victim of the remaining enraged Werewolf. "We really need to discuss your lack of foresight—"

"Oh yeah, like it's all my fault! If you and Fran pulled your weight—"

"If **someone** wasn't a complete **airhead** and allowed us to fill our magical Mist meters—"

"If… If… Hey!" Vaan dodged a blow from a massive sword/axe/giant-weapon-of-hume-smashing, and turned his pout on full blast. "This is all Basch's fault. He keeps dying! If he'd only follow orders—"

"I'm a Guest," the ex-Captain snarled before getting smacked flat by the blow that had been targeted at their blond Leader.

"For the love of…" Balthier pulled out another Phoenix Down, but was sidetracked from his mission by the arrow that had suddenly lodged itself in the leather of his left holster. "How odd. Where… Oh. Oh — Fran dear, this _isn't_ what you think. We're not peeping behind your scraggly bush, no indeed; we're running for our cowardly lives. Except, um, Basch, who bravely stood to safeguard our retreat, and thus _has_ no cowardly life to run for at the moment — Ouch!"

Fran lowered her sharply clawed hand, pleased with the slap she'd bestowed. "Lousy excuse."

"Well, yes, it was, but now Vaan's ahead of us, and the Werewolf is behind us, and you know it takes _forever_ for me to fire this antiquated gun," he panted, and grabbed his partner by her armored arm, and wiped a streak of blood off his face with his free hand, ruining the delicate lace of his cuff. "_Why_ did we make that brat Leader?"

She shrugged, and joined in on the fleeing. "Default option. I warned you that you're getting lazy."

"An unwarranted accusation while we're running the twenty thousand meter dash. Vaan, wait up, will you?" he called out, quietly cursing as his Gambits prodded him into action. "Lovely. I've regained enough Mist Points to cure this ridiculously small scratch on my cheek, and _of course_ I have to come to a complete standstill to cast the blighted spell, leaving me to the non-existent mercy of yon lycanthrope—"

"—That got bored and stopped chasing us a minute ago." Fran patted her partner's newly healed cheek, and smiled at the rising blush. "You shouldn't complain so much. All the exercise has done wonders for your glutes."

"Ah, you've noticed?"

"Actually, it was Basch that noticed, but I warned him that expressing his deepest admiration might lead to unfortunate misunderstandings."

"…Right." Balthier gave a rather lopsided grin. "I think he'll be taking his little dirt nap for a while longer."

"Hey, there you are!" Vaan trotted up, stolen Quality Hide draped across his shoulders and Pointy Hat perched atop his head. "What kept you? That is…" his rather goofy smile fled in the face of Balthier's cocked gun. "I've got a Mist Charge. Let's go get those Werewolves!"

"Not again." The older man debated the merits and drawbacks of Teeny-bopper-Leadercide. "_Why_ must we 'go get those Werewolves'?"

"'Cause Penelo says there's this really super-rare ultra-cool sword thingie they drop, which would come in handy when I'm out exterminating rats and, uhm, ne'er-do-wells and Imperial Soldiers and Seeqs that keep confusing me for a rent boy… What?"

"Would the Kotetsu dropped by the third Werewolf we killed be the Katana you've been seeking?" Fran inquired with freezing politeness, drawing the blade and leveling it at the blond teenager's nose.

"That's it! Heh, guess I must have missed that message, huh? But hey, the other sixty-seven Werewolves we killed were good experience, right? And we've got, like, _tons_ of steps and Clan Points accumulated now. You guys are the greatest! Let's head back to the Estersand—"

_"—Fran, I'd really prefer to shoot him **now** and take the crystal from his blissfully quiet corpse—"_

"—and see how we do against that Wild Saurian; sure, there're rumors he can Cannibalize you with one bite, but you shouldn't believe everything you hear—"

_"—I'd let you try, but there's a dark power swirling around him that frightens me—"_

"—and you can never have too much practice before taking on the sub-Bosses—"

_"—It's called optimism, Fran—"_

"—Migelo says a good rule of thumb is to be thirty levels above your expected opponent's—"

_"—Besides, I already tried sniping him—"_

"—and clear as many tiles from your License Board, even if you plan to _never_ pick up a rod in your life—"

_"—And…?—"_

"—even if I won't _ever_ find the awesome Zodiac Spear because I opened that chest outside Dalan's—"

_"—Your gun _**missed**_, Balthier—"_

"—but that's why you made me Leader, right? Because I think things through!"

Fran _just_ managed to smack the gun away from her partner's temple before he removed himself from the great game of life. Basch (brought back from the bleak beyond by the tender ministrations of a herd of Happy Bunnies), having finally caught up to the group (after dodging the amorous advances of Alpha Hyenas), wasn't as lucky.

"Well, he can _stay_ dead for all I care," Vaan pouted with arms crossed — for a brisk wind had sprung up raising goose bumps along his exposed arms, and chest, and disturbingly defined abs. "We're low on Phoenix Downs, and I'm not breaking our Chain by going into Nalbina. Besides, I **know** he killed my brother. Evil twin my ass; next thing you know, he'll be telling me that snobby strumpet we saved in the sewers was a Princess. And a gutter rat like me will be off to save the world from, well, whatever the world needs saving from, I suppose."

"Licentious Seeq traders looking for a good time from local pretty boys?" Fran asked matter-of-factly.

"Oh yeah, they're going down!" Vaan promised as Balthier shuddered and Basch pretty much stayed dead.


	2. just don't look

_**Disclaimer:** Still, thankfully, not mine._

_**Notes and Warning:** I'm stunned by the number of reviews garnered by the first scenario. And humbled. Most grateful. That being said, _this_ scenario may be offensive to some, for my limits are few and far between while others seem to be discomfited by issues that I merely find humorous. So, rather than subject myself to flames of furious affront, I offer warning. Characters are Basched… err… I mean _**bashed**_. Characters check out other characters' bums, regardless of characters' gender/species/personality/etc. Innuendos are made, regardless of blahda blahda blah. There is, however, no romance. Of any sort. No pairings, no couples — no coupling. Despite Basch's pleas. And yes, this warning is silly and over-long, and I feel all the sillier for writing it, but I felt it needed to be done for the rare reader that would read, and be insulted, and outraged that I hadn't warned them in the first place (being, I suppose, the first scenario, but I felt no need to go back and edit _there_…)_

_Having said _that_ as well, I must admit this scenario isn't nearly as satisfying as the first, being, as it is, a bridge between first and third, and hardly worthy of the designation of scenario on its own merit. But since the third is in progress, I _must_ include the second, worthiness aside. I begin to fear I shall never progress in the game; forty-four hours in, and I've just toppled the Urutan-Eater. After skewering the Urutan-Yensa surrounding it. :sigh: I'm not having fun yet. And the game has destroyed my writing style. Just look at the above! Alliteration ate my literacy._

**In No Particular Hurry**

He was not an outdoorsy type of person. He preferred his water _chilled_, in crystal goblets, brought to him by busty barmaids generously bribed to bounce in lieu of a floorshow of second-rate magicians wearing oddly-shaped hats infested with dreamhares and molting doves. He preferred his water _hot_, in a tub, shared with splendid company — or the aforementioned bribed busty barmaids if no better prospects presented themselves. He preferred his water tamed, contained, and easily disposed of down a convenient drain. Of all the ways he'd been confronted by water, thigh-high and bone-chilling and smelling a bit of fish past its prime was his least favorite. Well, second least favorite, for smelling a bit of hume refuse — as the Waterway had — was ever-so much worse if he let himself dwell. Which he couldn't, not with icy water perilously close to his favorite assets and Fran perilously close to clawing said assets to shreds over an off-hand (but sorely repented) comment on the remarkable effect frigid rivers had on pert viera flesh; he _knew_ better, he did, but it had been far too long since his last tavern dive, and his restraint was wearing thin.

Basch, buck naked and all scrawny pale limbs and sudsy pale hair, wasn't helping. And while his singing voice was pleasant enough, the subject matter left much to be desired — despite the subject matter waxing poetic _over_ desire of the most carnal variety. Basch, he'd concluded, was an absolute pervert, as was only to be expected of a man who'd spent the last two years with his arms chained _away_ from his body. The former Captain of Dalmasca would either get over it — or develop blisters in areas he wasn't the _least_ bit interested in. Either way, they'd have peace, for a while.

"What are we looking for, again?" he asked Fran, for while she might yet be angry, her answer would surely make more sense than Vaan's, who'd replied to his first query with rolled eyes and that damnable pout, and a finger pointing straight at the Nebra. "Not that I'm not enjoying this wonderful frolic after the harsh travails of desert travel…"

"Semclam Shells." Catching a Glint of something Mysterious, she reached down only to smack her face against the surface of the river. Spluttering, she pushed back sopping white locks and examined the fistful of debris she'd claimed from the river bottom. "But all I am finding are bottle caps and engagement rings." With a sigh, she tossed the sludgy handful back into the water. "**Do** something, Balthier. I feel Berserk rage rising within me over this trivial task; if it were to break free — I fear what I might crush." She gave her partner a meaningful Look. "**You** should fear what I might crush."

"Ever persuasive, my dear. Your command is my humblest wish. Oh Vaaaan…" he called out, squelching his way over to their overly-blond Leader. "Could you enlighten me as to why we're seeking shells when you've already given our supply to that demanding village woman? I do recall you telling us about your previous involvement in this fetch quest. Repeatedly. Against our fondest desires for your absolute silence. Hmm?"

"Hmm?" The boy refused to remove his gaze from the Nebra's rippling current. "Basch demanded a bath — at sword's point. And I thought you'd rather look for clams than look at…" He shuddered, and hunched closer to the river's surface. "If I was wrong, then go back to shore. I won't stop you. You might be Blinded, or turned to Stone, or forced into perpetual chastity…" The tip of his nose was wet, the boy was now hunched so far over. "Yeah, chastity's sounding _real_ good about now. Is he _ever_ going to run out of lewd chanties?"

"He _was_ a soldier." Balthier winced as a particularly implausible lyric carried over the sweltering breeze. "So, you're not expecting us to actually find these elusive mollusks? They're but a ruse—"

"—to preserve our sanity. Yes. That, and, well…" Vaan blushed, and dared a quick, upwards glance. "When I was here earlier I saw this gigantic furry thing waddle out of the river. It looked totally wicked, and carnivorous, with its huge mouth and huge teeth and bits of unfortunate villagers dribbling out of its huge mouth and stuck between its huge teeth… With four of us, I'm sure we could kill it. Or feed it. As long as it's Basch."

"You've a truly devious turn of mind. Perhaps you're not a complete waste after all." Balthier stroked his chin, then followed the younger man's advice, if only because it put him in position to drown himself should the dire need arise. Nose to noisome water, he tried out-waiting the jubilantly (and outright salaciously) bathing Basch. "Although I fail to comprehend your reasoning in dragging us across uncounted deserts and plains when we should, by rights, have long since reached Rabanastre. I begin to suspect you of having ulterior motives."

"Nah. I just get sidetracked easily. And Penelo usually keeps track of my To-Do list. Which isn't the same as Migelo's To-Do list; that's usually Imperial Soldier F, affluent man to the left inside Batahn's, wealthy merchant standing outside Eastgate—"

"Wait." Balthier blinked, and reassessed the younger blond (coming to the same conclusion he'd reached previously: Net worth a bushel of apples and a pair of darned but otherwise serviceable socks). "I distinctly recall your outrage over being mistaken for a rent boy."

"Oh. Yeah, about that," he scratched at an itch on his ankle, accidentally submerging himself — for he'd forgotten he was standing hip-deep in the river. His lack of awareness of his current location was not due to burgeoning embarrassment, but because he'd caught sight of something shiny, and he was indeed easily sidetracked. "I shoulda said I wasn't a _common_ rent boy. You've seen Migelo, haven't you? Do you really think a bangaa _dressed_ like that takes care of orphaned children out of the kindness of his heart? He offers us _jobs_, all right…"

"Ah." If he blinked in blank bewilderment much faster, Fran would claim him a coquet — though not unfairly. "So the truth over your hesitance to return to Rabanastre comes to light. You keep us sequestered in the desert fighting overgrown chickens with attitude in order to elude your pimp. Truly the sand must be scouring my wits dull not to have realized—"

"Hey! I said nothing of the sort!" Vaan _would_ have looked outraged were he not dripping wet and sporting a merrily cavorting tadpole on his chin. "You're assuming _way_ too much from a few _innocent_ statements—"

"I'm beginning to think _you_ and _innocent_ are only nodding acquaintances—"

"Balthier," Fran joined them, curious over the rising volume of their conversation. "Is there a problem? I'm prepared," she clenched her sharply clawed hands while a gleeful smile lurked at the corners of her otherwise stern lips, "to deal _crushing_ retribution to whatever obstacle dare impede our journey."

"Save your rage for the local endangered wildlife; I'm sure they'll welcome the deathblow after the misfortune of catching Basch in the buff." Balthier sighed, and inhaled river water. Helpful pats from Vaan and bone rattling blows from Fran cleared his lungs and doomed him to yet another day wandering the Estersands. "I need a drink," he declared mournfully, picking slime-coated waterweed from his ruined suede vest. "I need a pub, with lissome wenches fit to practice suave blandishments upon. My legendary silver tongue grows tarnished from lack of practice."

Vaan shrugged, not actually caring that the older man was depressed but somewhat worried that he might actually succeed in doing himself in, leaving him alone with the pretty but frightfully intimidating viera and the not-as-pretty but even more frightening ex-Captain. "You could always flirt with Fran."

"Who'd neuter me."

"Uhm, yeah. Ouch." The lady in question, now grinning openly and making cute little snip-snip motions with her sharply manicured fingers, inched past intimidating into terror provoking. "Well, there's Basch—"

"Who'd take me seriously."

"There's that…" A moonstruck Basch wasn't an eventuality anyone wanted to face. "I guess that leaves—"

"No one at all," Balthier cut in, earrings tinkling soft counterpoint to his violently shaking head, "for you'd certainly overcharge me."

"Got that right," the blond sneered before remembering his current, vehement denial of certain accusations. "—Hey…! I told you…" Without thinking he looked up — his gaze landing on Basch's backside. "I told… I…" He gulped (and managed to swallow the tadpole). "Remember me telling you about the gigantic, villager-eating monster?"

"Yes…?" the other man answered warily, taken aback by the non sequitur.

"I hope Fran is still in the mood for crushing, 'cause it's about to eat Basch, and it'll be coming after us next."

"Why must the good be joined with the bad?" Philosophical, yet resigned to his fate, Balthier straightened and turned, the better to assess the situation. "The — exceptionally bad. It is not that I fear death; indeed, you've taught me to embrace it with eager arms; it's the ignominy of leaving this life in the crushing maw of something that extraordinarily fluffy. And white." He crossed his arms, and dripped, and knew with certainty that river water had flooded into the barrel of Capella, rending his gun more useless than usual, unless he planned on chucking the ugly length of metal at the monster, perhaps bruising the tip of its snarling snout. "Did I mention that it's _fluffy_?"

"I could strangle you," Fran offered, placing a consoling (and muck-encrusted) hand upon his shoulder. "Those smothered by viera are often considered lucky bastards."

"Would you?" He was actually cheered by the prospect of imminent demise, as opposed to not _quite_ as imminent but much more gooey demise. "I knew you cared, my dear. Now if you'd be so good as to snap my neck to be sure—"

"Wait…" Vaan, torn between watching the shambling Greeden and his suicidal party members, instead found his attention caught by Basch, who by now had noticed the beast's approach.

"Waiting's the last thing I want to do, but you've managed to pique my curiosity." Balthier covered his partner's fine-furred hand with his own, silently promising her _soon_. "Do tell, Vaan, why you've called for the postponement of my… my…" Eyes caught by the sight that had enthralled their nominal Leader, he paled, and swayed, and would have fallen with a sparkling sploosh had Fran not steadied him. "Mein Gott! Der Dummkopf!"

"Indeed." Fran twitched, from the tips of her dark-pigmented ears to the tips of her darkly clawed toes. "The gods torture us for their amusement."

Vaan nodded his perfectly tousled head in agreement. "Two years locked away in the dark and the dank must have snapped his mind. I mean, he doesn't even _have_ his sword; he left it on the bank with his clothes."

Balthier urgently, desperately needed a drink. Or nine. Or a scrumptious morsel laced with opiates. Or to be knocked mercifully unconscious. He wasn't, by this point, a picky man. "I don't believe _that's_ the sword he has in mind."

Caught up in his frenzy, Basch heard none of their comments. Instead, he shook his fist at the fluffily white creature's nose, causing the Greeden to go cross-eyed trying to focus on the peculiar, ranting biped.

"Ha ha! Fate has brought us together upon this pleasant, sandy shore of battle. Cower before my mighty blade, fell beast, and know despair!"

"Gworf?" the Greeden growled curiously around its mouthful of boastful Basch.

"This is where we run away, most likely into a pack of wolves," Balthier reminded the other two who were gaping in shock at the ex-Captain's rather garbled _I fight on!_ "And if by some mischance we happen across one of those misbegotten Happy Bunnies — kill it. We can't take the chance of it reviving Basch. In fact, let's all solemnly swear to never touch a Save Crystal again. The repercussions would be disastrous. After all," powdery sand clung to his trousers and the soles of his shoes, but did not slow down his strategic withdrawal in the slightest, "his clothing is still back at the shoreline."

The other two dutifully swore, and Balthier soon joined in, for Vaan didn't sound the least bit blasphemous with his high-pitched yelps of, "Oh noes!"


End file.
